


The Desolation of Phil

by phae



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dragons, Interspecies Romance, M/M, Magic, Phil is a bit of a snob, Princes & Princesses, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 07:42:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3683823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phae/pseuds/phae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For there is truly no more desolate a situation than when a dragon falls in love with a human, and a human prince at that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Desolation of Phil

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place prior to [we were born with fire and gold in our eyes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3629223), but the order they're read in doesn't particularly matter.

It starts, as many things do where dragons are concerned, with his hoard. Philandros has been neglecting it as of late, caught up in the petty, yet amusing, drama of human life. The piles of jewels and coins tucked away in the underground cavern Philandros calls home are beginning to take on a sad, lonely slump, like a soufflé jarred while baking, the center sinking in on itself.

 

So, naturally, Philandros sets to rectify the situation, and is soon skimming through his ledgers, a finely sharpened claw dragging down the tidy list of all the towns and kingdoms he’s raided in the name of expanding his hoard, looking for one he hasn’t visited in a good few decades that will have the resident treasure stores full enough again to ensure his trip across the continent is worth his while.

 

He finds his target easily enough: the Kingdom of Bartonia, whose greedy, miserly king will no doubt have gathered ample bounty for Philandros to avail himself of after nearly eighty years supposedly dragon-free. With his destination decided, he crawls out of the bowels of his cavern in the harsh, rocky mountains of the Northern region and takes flight, high into the skies well above the cloud cover, headed southwest.

 

Just inside the borders of Bartonia, Philandros lands in a forest thick with foliage and takes a moment to work a simple shapeshifting spell that will disguise him as an entirely ordinary, bland human. He then begins hitchhiking his way to the grand castle on the back of merchants’ carts and farmers’ wagons, and within the day finds himself ensconced in the stables of a lovely inn set on the outskirts of the town surrounding the castle.

 

The horses, at least, are restless in his presence, shuffling about their stalls and flicking their manes in agitation. Philandros isn’t surprised that they can sense the real danger he presents; he’s always found the equine species to be a good sight more sensitive and intelligent than their so-called masters, after all.

 

Rather than shell out some coins for a room he won’t bother to sleep in, Philandros takes to a secluded spot in the hayloft and waits for dawn to break before he continues his journey, and soon the early morning light sees him slipping through the castle gates alongside various delivery persons on errands for the castle staff.

 

The lack of guards on the lookout for suspicious activity is disappointing, to say the least. Sure, he isn’t actively looking for trouble, but would it really be so difficult for these humans to at least present him with a challenge before he robs them blind? Half the fun is in the chase, as it’s the only thing that really lifts the lingering fog of boredom from his life these days.

 

Granted, ten minutes into his exploration of the inner halls, Philandros finds himself hopelessly turned around. Someone has seen to it that what the castle lacks in security personnel is made up for with some rather cleverly defensive architecture—the entire layout has been revamped since his last visit to this particular kingdom so that a more thorough investigation into the most promising rooms would draw unwanted attention, and there must be runes of some fashion etched into the stonework because Philandros can feel the slow drain on the spell keeping his true form concealed from all human perception.

 

He won’t be able to loiter around for much longer at this rate, though he should have plenty of time to finish his cursory tour of the castle and at least pinpoint the best bets for the treasure room’s new location. But judging by the headache building low in his skull, Philandros will probably have to take a week’s rest before returning to steal what he actually came for, which is a delay in gratification he has not accounted for and certainly dampens the overall experience.

 

In the back of his mind, he idly wonders if the castle’s re-designer was acquainted with dragons and their usual tricks of the trade, given how confounding he’s finding it to locate his quarry.

 

For some reason, most humans seem to be under the impression that dragons can just sniff out where humans stash their valuables, like dogs on the hunt. But that is a frankly ridiculous notion, so far as Philandros is concerned. Humans muddy the clean scent of minerals and ores with all their sweat and perfumes and incense, not to mention all the melting and twisting they force on such precious metals to meld them into shapes only they find useful. It’s truly a wonder most dragons can even stand to be in their general company long enough to uncover their hidden troves the old-fashioned way.

 

But Philandros has long since discovered that the key to exploring a castle in search of it’s treasure room without alerting anyone to his motives is a placid smile and a harried yet authoritative stride. Humans are so predictable in their subservience to their so-called pecking order that Philandros almost feels bad for deceiving them so easily.

 

Given the protections in place that he’s already noted, though, Philandros really shouldn’t be surprised once someone does finally notice him beyond that vague way humans have of paying attention to the things in their direct path.

 

Philandros is commencing his initial sweep of the East Wing when faint footsteps begin to trail him and continue to do so no matter which corridor he turns down. Carefully pasting an impatient scowl on his temporarily human features, which is a good deal more difficult without the aid of sinister fangs to handle most of the intimidation factor required to properly pull the look off, Philandros abruptly pivots in the middle of the floor to confront his stalker. “May I help you?” he demands irritably.

 

The man he encounters is dressed simply enough, but his affected air of nonchalance despite his tensed shoulders—because Philandros can easily make out the finer details of sinewy muscle coiled beneath such a thin, fleshy surface—highly suggest that the man is a soldier, most likely a knight wandering the halls before duty calls him to the training grounds, one who is at ease when facing down a threat but still suitably cautious. If nothing else, the assessing gaze he rakes over Philandros’ magicked form would certainly have given away that he’s no ordinary servant or staffer.

 

The man shrugs at Philandros’ question, and a slight smile twitches at the edge of his mouth almost as if he is amused when he replies, “You’re headed the wrong way.”

 

“Excuse me?” Philandros responds tightly.

 

“The vaults?” The man tilts his head to the side with an easy smirk. “Definitely not this way.”

 

Philandros’ posture stiffens as he takes a more in-depth assessment of the possible obstacle that now stands before him. For all the man’s seeming amusement with the situation, his hand is positioned at his hip in such a way that Philandros assumes he must have a dagger or some other small weapon sheathed there out of plain sight. Philandros isn’t equipped with any kind of human weapon, as he prefers to leave such indelicate pieces to Nikomedes’ collection, but he’s hardly defenseless. Even cloaked in this human form, his strength is still vastly superior to any human’s, and he’s had centuries to learn how to adequately fight in whatever form he so chooses. Having evaluated and summarily dismissed the man as any real threat, then, Philandros eases his stance into a more typically human, and unassuming, one.

 

Once the man gathers that Philandros isn’t overly wary of him, he oddly appears delighted. Really, humans are such strange creatures, Philandros muses. The man then says, “Might I ask after your intentions for the kingdom’s gold?”

 

Philandros huffs quietly to himself and crosses his stick-like arms across his too-narrow chest. “Well, you already have, so it’s not as if I can stop you now.”

 

The man laughs. Curiouser and curiouser. “It’s only that, provided my conscious can approve of them,” he says, “I can save you a good deal of hassle and show you where the vaults are.”

 

The art of expressing one’s incredulity through the human eyebrows is one that took Philandros a solid decade to peg down, but it was worth it for situations such as this. “I’m sorry, are you trying to trick me into a dungeon cell?”

 

“No, no, wouldn’t dream of it.” He shakes his head emphatically and moves so that he is close enough to the wall of the corridor to lean his shoulder against the stones. “And it’s not as if all that gold’s doing anyone any good where it sits. And sits, and sits, and sits. Were you in the market to, say, redistribute various monies where they could be of better use, I might find myself inclined to assist you.”

 

While Philandros isn’t too full of himself to admit that there was some mighty fine eyebrow waggling mixed in there, he still has to wonder at the absolute absurdity of some humans. Really, if the man is so set on giving the gold back to the people of the kingdom, since it really isn’t doing much of anything sitting in a vault other than painting a wider and wider target on the castle, then he should have relieved the coffers of their goods before now, given his own insider knowledge.

 

“But, if your aims were less than altruistic,” and here the man’s easy grin slips into what could almost be a wicked smirk were it not for his line of straight, all too dull human teeth, “Like say, to just steal it all for yourself, I’m afraid I’d have to have you spitted and roasted like the hog that you are.”

 

A ripple of magic races down Philandros’ back, and he can feel the shapeshifting spell beginning to unravel. He has maybe an hour to either try and reinforce it or change back. Rolling his eyes more at his own bad luck than the man before him, he says, “Fascinating as that all is, I believe you have me confused with someone else. Though I am lost, it seems.”

 

The man tips his head consideringly, but accepts the lie easily enough. “Apologies. Where were you headed, then?”

 

“The library,” Philandros decides, directing a bland smile at the man. “I’m meant to pick up some scrolls of harvest records?”

 

“Well, then.” The man turns about-face and starts to walk back down the corridor, calling over his shoulder, “You weren’t too far off, in that case. Right this way.”

 

Philandros shakes off his growing annoyance with the man and follows him at a distance. He should have known better than to wish for a more daunting challenge in this castle hunt. Although, that it’s a sole human who’s able to present such a challenge is a good deal more intriguing than Philandros would care to admit just now.


End file.
